


My Lovely Sunshine

by masked_simplicity



Series: You Are My Sunshine [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Clones, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Graphic Description, M/M, Original Character(s), Story Rich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masked_simplicity/pseuds/masked_simplicity
Summary: BLU plummeted down quick shortly after the assassination of Blutarch Mann by his apparent long lost brother, Gray Mann, and another mysterious stranger. Though this may have been a victory for RED, Miss Pauling warns that more danger is to arrive in time, especially with these new enemies at hand. The RED Scout grew quick to stop caring much... until he found himself captured by the hands of someone he least expected.BLU Sniper/RED Scout. RED Sniper/RED Spy. Sniperscout and Sniperspy segment of the overall story. More tags will come.





	My Lovely Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by this post: https://tomeart.tumblr.com/post/181056651098/dad-is-here-spy-and-scout-from-the-comics-scenes. This does not happen in the story, however. It will be divergent to the canon in the comic. Enjoy.
> 
> Note: This fanfic follows the clone and alternate universe headcanon as to why there are many mercenaries and how they respawn. The mercenaries do not respawn when they die.

There never was a boring day when it came to his job as a mercenary.

Scout never dreamed about being a mercenary when he first started out — it was, what his mother called it, more of a turn of fate when those men came over that very day, clad in suits that were red where white was supposed to be. Scout preferred calling it luck.

He had been eavesdropping from behind the door to his room as she spoke to them, anxious as they mentioned his name. He thought it was the cops or some other form of authoritative figure; a result of his neighbours growing far too tired of all the bullshit he forced them to sit through (playing baseball and breaking their windows as a result; smoking crack and ending bashing their cars for it; et cetera) and judging by his mother’s hesitance to answer them with his whereabouts, she too was worried they would be sending him behind bars.

He had been close to making an exit through the backdoor that day. Naturally he knew he screwed up pretty badly and caused an unforgivable amount of trouble to the community by being the brat that he was — and this certainly wasn’t the first time they had tried to make him repent for his mischievousness but never had they tried to bring the police into it. Heck, he had actually been putting a lot of effort in toning down his behaviour the past few weeks, and his mother had even complimented him for doing so well a job.

Scout was the eighth and the youngest out of his family of nine — him, his seven brothers and his mother (his father, he heard, had died long ago while he was still a baby) — and the only child left that was still in the house. All his brothers had already found a job; some of them were even dads. They had their own lives to tend to, so Scout was, alas, the only person left whom his mother had. He was, after all, the only one out of the eight of his siblings that got kicked out of school, so home was really the only place he had left.

He did want to fix himself for sure — Scout, like everyone else, wanted an ideal future when he grew up too (he had forgotten he was already past his twenties) — but prison was, unsurprisingly, not one of the places he wanted to grow old at. If he were to ever find himself in such a place, his life might as well be as good as gone. So instead of sticking around and hoping the men wouldn’t know where he was, Scout began to work on prying the grilling on the windows open. It was too late for him to take the backdoor, since right outside his door were the exact people he was trying to avoid, and it wouldn’t work if his mom had no clue as to what he was planning.

But right before he could execute his brilliant plan to maintain his freedom, the men spoke a little louder, and just out of luck, Scout managed to pick up on their words. _“No, ma’am,”_ they reassured his mother, _“we will not be taking your son to jail. In fact, we’re offering a job, ma’am — a job that only he himself can accomplish.”_

And that was more than enough to convince Scout to come barging out the door.

He put on a smug and arrogant face, trying to look like he wouldn’t be easily bought with something as simple as being given a job opportunity — though in truth, Scout was already more than willing to accept the offer, if it meant he had some way of earning cash. _“And why me, huh? Ain’t many people like you dumb enough to come finding shitty lil’ brats like me.”_

 _“Jeremy—”_ his mother warned, but the men waved her off; like they were used to it.

 _“Those matters are confidential, I’m afraid,”_ they replied briskly. He tried to protest, but his efforts were brushed away as they cut him off and continued, _“It’s a simple job, really, and we know how skilled you are at it. You good with a bashing out someone's skull? You a runner? You don't mind if we throw a gun at you and ask you to fire? Then we know you’ll do just fine.”_

No offer as golden as that had presented itself so openly at the front of his doorstep before. Before he knew it, he was shoving as many clothes and necessities as he could into his work suitcase and out the door, heading for his new job.

He didn't even turn to see the forlorn look on his beloved mother's face as he strode his way with those men. His goodbye was short and dismissive. He hadn't seen her since.

The job soon presented many new lessons he was beckoned to try; and many new adventures alongside it.

He thought it was an overstatement at first — what they said about bashing and running — as he made his way to his first assignment. The goal was simple and understandable: to rob one of the new weapons constructed by the BLU Engineers. But he certainly expected some sort of catch.

He looked at them in confusion as he asked what he was supposed to do; and was even more confused when he saw that he was, apparently, going in alone.

They handed him a shotgun, a worn out bat and a pistol. _“Run.”_ was all they told him. Exactly as they told him before.

So run he did — through the door and light on his feet; past wave after wave of bullets firing after him; missiles sent to take him down. He ran and he fired; ran and fired because he knew he was screwed if he did otherwise — because his head was too much of a cluttered mess to try any other way. Hell, that was the only thought in his head the entire time he made his way through the building; as he snatched the first weapon he saw on the racks that looked identical to the picture they showed him.

It was the only thing he could think of as hostile Engineers slowly began to corner him. Their eyes were set aflame, with a wicked sneer scorned onto their faces. Scout had no other choice, so with that thought and that thought alone in his head, he came crashing through the window. The glass had shattered as he sent himself flying through, his heart racing as he landed straight back to where he first started.

He was only out cold for a few seconds before regaining consciousness, but his body bore less happier news. From his abdomen below, there was nothing but pain — he had broken his leg from the impact, his throat sore from thirst and the bitter sobbing that followed, his eyes stinging from tears and dirt. He did not have to stand in order to tell that he could not walk.

Fortunately he could still crawl, and before those Engineers could come over to investigate, Scout hid himself by a crevice between two rocks in the nearby jungle. It took him about an hour — and one too many close calls — before he finally heard the sounds of the Engineers’ irritated sighs as they finally gave up their search. Relieved, Scout alas passed out from the exhaustion. He stayed asleep until rescue came another hour later.

The journey back was full of pain as Scout slowly tried to think about what he could do to get his leg to recover faster. Sure, his brothers used to beat him up all the time but never to the extent of actually breaking his leg. The closest pain he had experienced before had been a muscle twist, but even that wasn’t close enough to what he felt after jumping out that window.

Hence, he made it sure to himself that he was done with jumping out of windows for a lifetime.

But nevertheless, he couldn’t stop that smile from reaching his lips as his heart pounding through his chest. From the excitement; the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

And though he hated that he had broken his leg, he learned that day that he loved the feeling of adrenaline more than anything else he could ever imagine. That was why Scout loved the idea of the job so much to begin with. If anything, he did it all for the thrill; and damn was he lucky for an opportunity to work at a place like RED.

The high payment that came alongside it was just a bonus.

But, unfortunately, not all days could be what he was looking for.

Today, Scout did not regret to say, was definitely the most boring day he had the misfortune of knowing ever since he joined RED.

He sighed, flopping his head onto the desk as he glanced over to the intercom screen. This was a rather unusual day to not be having anything to do. There was not even a single mission for them to do, even though they were normally given one on a daily basis. The possibility of it was definitely far too difficult to believe, for there always seemed to be _something_ the Administrator and Miss Pauling had in store for them — regardless of whether it was to steal some intel, break into some sort of secret base or even just plain going over to the BLU members just for the sake of pissing them off. Even if they did not, they would at least be briefing them with future missions they had to be prepared for. At least _something_ to do with missions.

None of the rest of the team were feeling at the top of their game either; especially not with the weather being as hot as it was that scalding afternoon. Everyone was either too tired, no doubt exhausted from the heat, or busy with a few tasks they set for themselves: Demoman was fast asleep by the fridge — an emptied bottle of whiskey from his grip having fallen down to the floor with a light clatter; Engineer and Sniper were having a friendly chat as they enjoyed lunch; Heavy seemed to be calibrating Sasha after all the work they did yesterday; Medic was probably over at his lab, deep in thought and muttering ideas to himself (and he loved making it clear that he hated being disturbed during this time); Soldier was performing his duties on patrol and hell if he knew where Spy was.

The only one left that didn’t seem very busy was Pyro, who was outside under the scorching weather (which probably wasn’t much of a problem for him since he loved working with fire and all) stroking a stray cat he found. The cat was gentle as it looked at him, and overjoyed as the creature began to purr, Pyro clapped his hands. But Scout pitied the undaunted feline. Never before was there a day where that man(?) failed to creep him out — rather, him and the rest of the team alike; and this day wouldn’t be an exception to that. As bored as he was, Scout was happier that way than he was with the idea of taking chances with the likes of someone like Pyro.

He sighed again. Just yesterday he, Heavy and Soldier had been sent on a great heist — stealing intel from BLU that were rumoured to have important information concerning the layouts of their headquarters. Helpful, he was told, for Spy to use in case he had to act as a mole or to weaken their defenses, but Scout wasn’t exactly listening to what they wanted to do with it. All he knew they had to do was to break in, destroy threats and get that intel.

All three of them were anticipating some sort of big fight they had to put up in order to get their hands on the target. Heavy had even planned a strategy (a simple one but a strategy nevertheless) before stepping in but alas, the action was far less than he had expected.

The building was completely vacant, save for an increased amount of sentries than usual — but not even a single Engineer to repair the damage in the aftermath of a potential break-in, like what he, Heavy and Soldier were attempting. Heck, from what the three of them noticed, some of the sentries weren’t even built all the way to their third level, which made it easier to take down compared to their upgraded counterparts. Some were even badly positioned; open for even Sniper to take down from more than four miles away.

Nevertheless, Scout was exhilarated at the thought of tearing them down, though even he had to confess that he found BLU’s recklessness unusual as well. Their job became about a hundred times easier — since Scout normally rated levels of difficulty in accordance to how life-threatening it was. This case, due to the lack of rockets fired intent on tearing him apart, was one of the easy ones. He was more than glad that he could focus more on destruction and beating the crap out of those turrets rather than bothering his mind with thoughts like, _“You gotta be careful here, man.”_

Heavy wasn’t happy about his choice of actions (though looking back, Scout wasn’t sure if it was because he disliked his impulsiveness or it was because he had placed a lot of effort into coming up with that plan of his), but Soldier on the other hand was just as thrilled over the word ‘destruction’ as he was. In the end, Heavy gave up and told them to take care so they did not end up damaging the intel in the wake of their fun.

They came back with the intel battered and scarred — the seams of Scout's sleeves caught ablaze and having a crack down his helmet for tripping over debris — and only Heavy unhurt, but putting up a grouch for them not listening (the intel papers ended up losing a page after Soldier fired a rocket to take down a sentry positioned to its left).

Still, it was a lot of fun.

And Scout felt that at this point, he would kill to feel that rush right there and then.

He twiddled his thumbs, staring intently at the intercom screen as he puffed out his cheeks in boredom. _I wonder what’s Miss Pauling up to?_ For the five years he had worked with RED, never once had he gone a day without seeing her face. The whole squad knew of his blatant crush on her, but Scout always wondered if Miss Pauling herself knew about it or not. He had made many moves that should’ve been more than a hint towards what he felt for her — asking her out on dates, passing her roses on Valentine’s Day, even trying to spend his supposedly last moments, when he thought he was about to die, with her.

If Miss Pauling _did_ know, did she simply not care? The thought of it disappointed Scout to no end.

Nevertheless, he was willing to wait either way. He was a patient man. One day, she would see the type of person he could be. Perhaps, alas, she would then love him as he loved her.

It was just a matter of time.

“Again with trying to muster the courage to ask that dial tone on a date, Scout?” came a cocky voice behind him, accompanied by a thick waft of smoke. Scout groaned; he didn’t even need to look behind to know who that was.

Part of him wished the French would remain missing.

“Can it, Spy,” he grumbled, leaning back on the chair and pulled his cap downwards to cover his face from breathing in more of that musky scent. He wasn’t in much of a mood to deal with his arrogant ways, nor was he very fond of Spy to begin with either. It was embarrassing enough that several weeks back he had been forced to admit that the asshole was better than him. That fucking sneak of a man. _When the hell did he appear behind me anyway?_

Spy scoffed, taking another whiff of his cigar, inhaled deeply and finally released. This time, however, he huffed it out to his direction, right to his face; and through that smoke, Scout could see that cunning smile peeking through. He was intentionally annoying him, no doubt, but Scout felt uneager to pent up the irritation surging through as he coughed. “Will you freakin’ cut that out?”

“How kind you are, Scout. Especially after I tried to help you gain the affections of Mademoiselle Pauling in what you called, your _‘dying and desperate’_ moments.”

Great, he knew it. He knew Spy would go there.

Already he could feel his cheeks begin to heat up. Turning his back to Spy, he tried his best to hide away the flushed and humiliated look on his face. Knowing him, if he ever caught sight of it, he wouldn't let him hear the end of it, just like what he was doing now. “Y’know what, fuck off, Spy. Why don't you just run along and—”

“Why, Scout, I didn't even ask for much. A display of gratitude was all.”

Scout froze on the spot, daring not to turn around to show Spy the look on his face as a contemplative guilt burst through. Scout honestly had to admit that he hadn’t expected Spy to lend him a hand when he requested that favour, even if he were to drop to the extent of grovelling on his feet since Spy always seemed like so busy a man. Hell, and to think that in his final days, he had willingly dedicated it to help him out—

But yet again, he had only chosen to do it after joyously watching Scout, humiliated and defeated, admit to him being better than the likes of which Scout was. That was probably _his_ dying wish, and he had contributed his assistance only because he was keeping his side of the bargain. Spy was, after all, one of the types that just loved writing up a good name for himself (which sure as hell wasn’t working in Scout’s point of view) and that was likely the only reason why he went on with the training.

Apart from that, Spy even chose to fail him after the lessons had been completed, like it had all been for naught. And heck, for all Scout knew, Spy could’ve been conducting those lessons for the mere sake of wasting what time he could’ve used to plan that date with Miss Pauling and end it more successfully.

Maybe Miss Pauling could have had feelings for him by now, but the only reason that had not happened was because of what Spy had done.

And in less than a flash, like the thunderclap that followed the lightning, that guilt was gone.

“Gratitude? _Gratitude,_ Spy?” he scoffed. “You know, I don't exactly remember you doing anything that helped me out with that date with Miss Pauling. You weren't playing Mr. _‘Why Scout, how dangerous and mysterious you are, especially after working your ass off for three days in a row without a freakin’ break’”_ — he mocked, imitating Spy’s accent, but throwing it off at the last few words — “you were more of a Mr. _‘Congratulations, you're a failure.’_ ”

Another deep inhale, another puff of smoke. “And you were. I taught you dangerous and mysterious, not psychotic and deranged. Tell me, Scout: what on earth gave you the idea that committing murder on a chef under nothing but sheer paranoia over them potentially not being trustable is dangerous and mysterious? Well, rather, the dangerous and mysterious that can come off as attractive, I meant to say. I admit I can see the dangerous in your choice of actions, but it is not the type of which ladies — or anyone sane, actually — would like; and it is definitely not in any way mysterious.”

Scout groaned, whipping his hat off his face as he turned the chair to face him straight. “You tellin’ me I went wrong there, Spy? Well, if you are then I’ll have you know that I was just followin’ that attitude you always pull off. You know, with the freakin’ mask and the freakin’ gloves and the—”

The older man sighed deeply, eyebrows furrowed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a _what am I supposed to do with you?_ expression scorned across his face. “You do know that there’s a different persona played when one’s at their job and one’s handling everyday matters, yes?”

“Fuck, I know _that,_ Spy, but heck I’ve actually seen most of the ladies getting attracted to you actin’ like a bloodthirsty freak. And anyway, Miss Pauling and I _did_ go on that date: the mission she had to get rid of the guy that pressing that security button? I was all like chatty and stuff as she chased after me and didn't stop until—”

“When did you get that cut on your forehead?”

Scout stopped at his words and blinked. “Huh?”

He looked back to Spy, unable to hide the confusion on his face as he thought: _What cut?_ An instinctive reaction fueled by curiousity, Scout’s hand reached out to his forehead, and slowly he began to trail his fingertips against the skin, looking for the cut he spoke of. Sure enough, he felt its jagged etches beginning from the roots of his hair, all the way down to the centrepoint of his forehead — it wasn’t particularly that deep, so touching it almost didn’t hurt at all; just a minor sting but nothing he was not used to already.

“Oh, this? Just a little partin’ gift I got from the BLU Demoman and that freakin’ sword he loves carrying around. Snuck up behind them and tried to stick some freakin’ bullets down that back of his but he heard me so he turned around and started swingin’.” His mind raced back to the memory of their duel, and in just a second he could feel the excitement surging back. He gave a chortle remembering how disoriented his victim was just before he sent that bullet through his chest. “Aw man, you should've seen the look on his face when he saw me behind—”

“You should get Medic to look into it. His medigun is perfectly capable of fixing problems like these with not even a scar left behind.”

“What, why?” Scout placed his cap back on, pulling it down over his cut, and barely hesitated in displaying distrust over Spy's seemingly caring gesture. From what he noticed many times before, Spy never cared if the rest of the team had their share of open wounds, so why was it any of Spy's business when it came to the cuts he had on his body? Besides, whenever it came to this man and doings out of goodwill, he always expected something in return —  usually the likes of which Scout was not eager to give back.

Spy let out an irritated sigh. “You could get infected if someone else's dirty blood ends up touching your wound. That wound is still fresh — it will be reopened if you're not careful.”

“Argh, it ain't gonna matter, Spy,” Scout spat bitterly. He pointed to the blank screen across the table, “Miss Pauling ain't giving us any freakin’ missions at the moment anyway and who knows when's the next time she will? It's a light cut anyway so by the time she's back, it'll already close up nicely.”

Scout, in truth, already knew about the dangers of potential infections and diseases that could be spread as a result of open wounds (his mother made sure he knew of that before he stepped into this sort of working environment) but honestly speaking, he'd rather suffer with whatever disease he was at risk with than approach the likes of a person which the team’s Medic was.

And he was certain Medic preferred having them all succumb to infections and so forth anyway, for in the end, people like him are nothing but replaceable assets that fell as a liability if they were to get hurt. Medic would rather just kill them on the spot.

It was strange how RED worked, and Scout only had a simple grasp of the concept of it: the RED company, as well as their nemesis the BLU company, had Gateways leading to other universes much like their own, but these alternatives had people slightly different than the likes of which theirs did — such as, for example, a Jeremy Christensen just like him, only richer or maybe an only child instead of having seven other siblings. Thus, whenever the person they hired were to be killed, they would have to find a new alternative; and those alternatives, due to them being the replacement to the Original, will be known as a Numbered.

If the current mercenary, however, were deemed valuable and vital to the team due to their excellent display of performance, the company they work under will begin to consider the idea of keeping them in the team. That was when the construction of clones started — the company sacrificing money by cloning the mercenary, maintaining their skills and profession, so they would not risk death upon them. If the mercenary were to die, on the other hand, the clones will go down with them.

The clones, unfortunately, often lacked intelligence and sometimes common sense; thus, the more difficult tasks were assigned to the Original. Hence, those missions were their main focus.

Scout, on the other hand, did not have the pleasure of being one of those lucky mercenaries. RED had produced clones of nearly everyone in the squad — everyone except him, Sniper, and Medic; with Medic not having any because, he heard, Medic himself had refused the offer; and Sniper because many of the Snipers before him were far too easily eliminated by the marksman of BLU: the BLU Sniper himself, to the extent they had given up on keeping the Original alive.

Why Scout had no clones, however, he himself wasn't sure why. In his own opinion, he thought he was doing quite well.

Which was why Scout had many fears whenever it came to speaking with Medic and requesting his aid. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what went on in Redmond Mann’s head when he hired _that_ man to play the role of Medic. Though Scout wasn't particularly certain why he loved doing it, Medic often expressed dislike towards teammates that were Numbered — which was everyone except Medic, Engineer, himself, and Spy; but Medic hated him nevertheless.

Scout _was_ an Original too, but he had only joined them five years ago, which meant his Original title still wasn't enough to impress Medic in any way. Furthermore, he knew Medic found him a liability to the team since the RED officials refused to produce clones of him — which must've struck Medic as a sign that he wasn't as productive in his job as RED wanted him to be. More than once had he entered the doctor’s lab before, only to have Medic grow annoyed and snapping at Scout for interrupting his ‘work’.

Once, he had even said, _“RED finds most consideration in those that perform well. They only form clones for those that are worthy enough to impress. You know what happens to those that do not, yes?”_

And with an undaunting look, a devilish smile, _“They grow more eager to see you leave.”_

That alone was more than enough to send him bolting through the door. Ever since then, Scout hated the idea of placing his foot near Medic's lab. Now wouldn't be an exception — just for a simple cut, no less. He did not bother explaining it to Spy. He was, after all, one of the few Medic respected, so how could he ever understand? Even if Spy _did_ become a Numbered, he'd be dead by then.

Spy was just about to argue back — eyebrows etched and anger beginning to boil onto his expression, his finger raised as he came close to stating his point — when Scout heard _that_ sound: the same one he heard everyday ever since he first joined RED; the same one he thought he wouldn't be hearing for today.

And along with it, the true reason why he was always waiting for the alarm to sound everyday.

 _"Anyone there? It's Miss Pauling."_ Miss Pauling's voice cracked through the radio, and immediately Scout shot up straight; slicking his hair back with a quick lick to his palm, his excited fidgeting all to the rhythm of the quickened beats of his heart. Spy watched, rolling his eyes as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.  
  
"Miss Pauling!" he exclaimed, barely containing himself at the sight of her beautiful face displayed across the screen. “What an unexpected surprise.”

She looked the same as she did every time he saw her, though perhaps more exhausted than usual — her hair more of a mess than her everyday do; her makeup sloppier; her under eye bags more apparent (and that was saying a lot, considering the daily tasks she had to perform each and every day). _“Sorry for the late briefing, guys. Me and the Administrator have been caught in a lot of new stuff coming up. It's—”_

“It ain't no problem at all, Miss Pauling,” Scout was quick to intercept. “I was busy all morning too, actually — y'know, making sure everything's running in order and all that while you were busy.” Instinctively, he fixed his attention onto his dirtied, filthy fingernails; trying his best to look like it was no big deal.

 _“That's, uh…”_ Miss Pauling continued, hesitant. _“That's great, Scout. Anyway, back to—”_

“Oh!” Scout piped up again, and Miss Pauling bit her lips shut. “And that thing Pyro brought this morning—”

Letting out a sigh, Spy shoved Scout away from the screen, muttering foul words in French underneath his breath before straightening up to his usual, excellent display of posture. “Good afternoon, Miss Pauling. What seems to be the situation?”

 _“Spy? Oh thank God,”_ Miss Pauling exclaimed in relief, allowing a small smile to grace her lips. Her apparent change in mood the instant Spy came to her sight in Scout’s stead had Scout folding his arms — face contorted with bitterness as he let out a loud and envious ‘hmph’. Both Miss Pauling and Spy chose to ignore him. _“Listen, I have something pretty important to tell you guys. It’s about BLU, which was why we didn’t send you on any missions today, or manage a briefing on mornings like we usually do — their whole system is a goddamn mess right now.”_

“Oh? I suppose this answers _someone’s_ questions,” Spy mused, glancing over his way. Scout pouted but offered no snarky comeback in return. He adjusted himself, trying his best to hide the blush on his cheeks.

“What is important news?” Heavy continued, his voice approaching as he sat himself in front of the screen alongside them, Sasha left behind by the couch he had been sitting on. With him, more and more of the squad were beginning to gather around, piqued with curiousity as they wondered exactly what Miss Pauling had in store for them.

“Them BLUs finally give up now did they, Miss Pauling?” Demoman chirped, his words laced with enthusiasm. “Teaches them wee lassies to mess around with the likes of us!”

Spy knocked him on the head, irritated. “Let her speak, fool. My apologies, Miss Pauling. Carry on.” His eyes remained trained on Demoman, glaring daggers even as he egged her to continue. Demoman cowered back just a slight, returning his gesture with a pitiful pout.

 _“Well,”_ Miss Pauling continued. Her words were slow and hesitant, as if she were unsure as to how she should word the thoughts in her head; or she was uncertain if she should do so to begin with. _“They didn’t give up, that’s for sure.”_ Demoman let out a groan of irritation, followed by Spy snapping at him to shut up once more. _“BLU will still remain RED’s nemesis and greatest foe.”_

“Well, Miss Pauling,” Medic spoke up, making his way through the archway that separated the hallway to his lab and the intercom room. As usual, his hands were a bloodied mess and Scout was nowhere near eager to learn of the source of it. “But if BLU is to remain our usual foe, I don't exactly see why this briefing would be necessary. What occurs out of our view is not important to us.”

Miss Pauling shook her head. _“I'm afraid it is, Doctor. Guys, Blutarch Mann was pronounced dead just this morning. He was called in for a meeting with one of his murderers, and was assassinated by him as they spoke.”_

Silence. For a long while, no one spoke a word.

Sniper was the first to break it. “But… that's a good thing, right? If Blutarch Mann is down, they’ve lost their leader. We'll show them bloody wankers and strike hard before they pull themselves back together.”

A few distinctive mutters followed in agreement, Scout a part of them. After all, every army weakens without a main guy telling them what to do.

But Miss Pauling, a sombre look growing on her face (or was it there before, but Scout had been too busy distracting himself over the fact that she was finally here that he ignored it entirely?) as once again, she shook her head. _“If only it were as simple as that, Sniper. Yes, RED will benefit a lot from BLU’s loss but that's only if Blutarch Mann were murdered for the sake of just wanting him dead. But no, he wasn't murdered for only that.”_

“So, for power then,” Engineer suggested. “Them killers wanted BLU under their command.”

Alas, she nodded. _“That's right. Blutarch Mann was killed because the murderers wanted more than to see him dead — they wanted their hands on BLU’s reins. They wanted absolute control over BLU, so what better way to do that than killing the one who owns it and replacing them instead?”_

“But still,” Medic spoke up again. “I do not see why this is a detriment for us. After all, surely a little change in BLU’s management will not put an end to the feud between them. Even if Blutarch Mann is now dead, I’m certain this new leader will not change anything for us. BLU will still remain our enemy so in the end, it is back to our everyday duties for us.”

 _“Yes, we would like to think that too, Medic. But the murderers are both not just plain ordinary people that happened to waltz in for the sake of owning BLU. First things first, both of them are Australians just like the Mann Brothers — and you know by now that whenever the issue concerns them, it's never an easy problem. After the long mining and usage of Australium, their stocks are finally beginning to see a dent. At this point, they'll do whatever they can to salvage the remaining. In any_ _way they can.”_

Australium. A common topic whenever Australians were involved, seeing that the ores can only be found in that country alone. While the world questioned the quick, rapid evolution of the people of Australia, him and all the other mercenaries — RED and BLU alike — knew that the main element that played the stepping stone to their advanced technology had always been Australium. Ever since the discovery of this very rare and limited metal, Australia had been doing nothing more than making giant leaps into the advancement of technology.

Scout understood the panic they had with its numbers finally beginning to tick lower and lower with every use of it. With the reliance Australians had towards Australium strengthening yet the values of it suffering a fall, how were they to empower their grand city? How do they change their path after going so far with the escorting it provided?

Miss Pauling continued, _“But that's not all, guys. About just an hour after the death of Blutarch Mann, Redmond Mann received a videotape sent to him only labelled ‘Gray Gravel Company’ from one of those scouting drones belonging to BLU; and alongside it a letter congratulating him for outliving his brother but that's not important. Here, I'll play it for all of you to see.”_

Miss Pauling walked to the side, stepping out from the view of the camera for a short moment and returned with a videotape in hand. Pasted straight across the surface of it, Scout saw a series of words that he couldn't read in time since Miss Pauling was moving too fast for him to pick them up, but he guessed it should be saying ‘Gray Gravel Company’ because she did mention those words labelling the tape. Not wanting them to wait any longer, she popped the tape into the player and soon, directed the screen to play the contents of it.

A catchy song chimed into the room, enlightening the feel of the place as the same words found on the tape came into play. Soon afterwards, an old man followed — about in his late seventies, Scout assumed based on his appearance — elbows rested on the table and his fingers interlaced. A smug grin, wide and prideful, was plastered across his wrinkly face, much like the one Spy would do whenever he gained the upper hand of a situation and alas, he spoke.

 _“Good evening, dear and beloved Redmond Mann,”_ he cooed, voice slathered in a mockingly cheerful tune, intent on insulting _, “and all the wonderful primates you hired in order to protect yourself. If you are viewing this video and watching as you celebrate the death of the pathetic shame that was Blutarch Mann, then I am here to tell you that my plan has been a success. I am one step closer to hatching my master plan and am already just an arm’s length away from getting me what I want. I hope you enjoy your victory as much as you can. While you can.”_

Well, Scout definitely didn't need to listen to the rest of the video to hate this guy already. Another one of those typical creeps that loved bickering on and on about having some kind of unique, diabolical plan but at the end of the day, having nothing that was even the slightest bit brag-worthy. Scout already knew how it would end with this guy: a swing of his bat straight against his head.

 _“Ah, I can imagine your face right now._ ‘Whatever can this simple man do to hurt the great Redmond Mann?’, _you must think. And indeed, what_ can _I do? But alas, I'm afraid that after all the years we have spent apart… you have been forced to think so little of me. Until several seconds ago when you started this video, you never even knew I existed, for Blutarch suffered this same mistake as well. Not that it was your fault — father did, after all, wish for my death shortly after I was born. He always loved you and brother so much more than he did me.”_

 _Wait_ , Scout lost himself there, his mind running off the track of the rest of the video and trailing back to that last sentence he said. _Did he just say—_

And all in the blink of an eye, that taunting, mocking smile withered away, and in its place the old man began to sneer. _“You, brother and father were all insolent fools to belittle me; to think of me dead and underestimate my intelligence; to think petty of my mind and my genius — so very well, brother. Why not you show me just how ‘petty’ and ‘insignificant’ I can be? I have already taken away Blutarch lands away from his stiff, useless hands so why not I steal yours to prove who truly is petty and insignificant? It is, technically, my right as well, for father did mention that his territory would go to his sons — and how greedy you and Blutarch were to not consider handing me even a fragment of it. Mark my words, brother,”_ he pointed at the screen threateningly, his voice dropped to a low snarl, _“All of you were wrong to think less of Gray Mann.”_

The last thing Scout saw before the screen tape ended were those menacing eyes — fogged in hate and ire, burned into the back of his mind.

The entire squad was silent as Miss Pauling returned to the screen. Judging by the firm expression on her face, she had definitely expected this reaction among them. Perhaps both her and the Administrator themselves did not predict it would be a person they thought was dead almost a century ago, thus they knew the squad wouldn't take it easily either.

Scout was the first to pull himself together. “Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, holding out his hands for a halt as he tried to piece together the facts he already knew and the ones he just found out. “Those freakin’ Mann Twins have _another_ brother? I thought they were, you know, Mann _Twins._ Twins, as in, _two_ people.”

Spy thrummed his finger intently against his lip, his cigar near the halfway marker but left forgotten with only his fingers left to encompass it. “Impossible. There has never been a third brother. It is impossible for this ‘Gray Mann’ to just fall out of the sky and kill Blutarch Mann. Redmond Mann has only one brother and Blutarch Mann only one: one another. This man is a fraud for certain.”

 _“Well,”_ Miss Pauling adjusted her glasses in uncertainty, _“that's what we thought too. In fact, even Redmond Mann himself didn't know about Gray Mann until he found out about the murder of his recent twin. He himself doubted his words and said that if anything, he was probably just lying. But the Administrator and I did a little bit of digging — took up some old letters and documents left behind by Zephaniah Mann — and I think we found something that may be an answer as to who this ‘Gray Mann’ really is.”_

She went to her side again, followed by a soft shuffling of papers and documents, before she returned with an aged bit of crumpled parchment, laminated and protected from any further damage. Miss Pauling held it out for all of them to see, but written on it was, to Scout, nothing more than a series of scribbles and incomprehensible words. It was an intricate and elegant kind of flourish, but useless since he failed to see the message behind it.

He looked over to everyone else. “Yo, could someone—”

Medic cleared his throat, squinted at the parchment and aloud, began to read:

 

‘To my beloved brother Zephaniah Mann,

I have received word from the community and am with greatest joy, pleased to congratulate you on behalf of your most handsome wife giving birth to your new sons. How rare it is, my dear brother, for one to be blessed three sons at once. Truly the heavens are smiling!

I am, however, grief-stricken for the loss of your darling wife as a result of her painful delivery. I pray you will not have much difficulty caring for these new offsprings in the wake of her recent death. If you find that any difficulty arises you, dear brother, kindly do not hesitate in seeking my aid. I will provide as much assistance as I can, though I am a long distance away.

Good luck, Zephaniah.

Regards,

Silas Mann

 

He paused, “But… this letter confirms the claims of that Gray Mann. Silas Mann here has written that Zephaniah Mann has three sons instead of the two we know of. He says that Gray Mann exists.”

Miss Pauling nodded grimly, _“Exactly, Medic. We even checked to see if it might’ve been forged, manipulated or faked, and I hate to say it but we've confirmed that this is the real deal. The signature, the pressure applied throughout the writing and the age of the paper all point down to him, so we know for sure that this could've only been done by Silas Mann himself. So, we found out through those means that the Mann Twins are not actually Mann_ Twins _but rather, Mann_ Triplets.

 _“Naturally, we still hesitated at believing his words,”_ she continued. _“For all we know, the third Mann brother could've been dead years ago after his father abandoned him. Even if he_ did _live, there was no way for certain that he could've made it through after all these years. But—”_

“Let me guess,” Spy suggested, his voice monotonous at this point. “He proved his blood relations and confirmed that he is indeed genetically tied to the Mann brothers.”

_“Through Blutarch Mann’s blood, yes. He sent us the full report. Even gave us a small vial of his own blood just in case we thought the report was a fake.”_

Scout didn’t know if he should be impressed or disturbed. Either way, he certainly was glad he wasn’t a Mann brother. He didn’t know whether or not he would be able to handle all the potential possibilities that may arise in the future, nor was he even capable of thinking of what the future may have in store.

“Miss Pauling said ‘both’ when talking about murderers. There is two then. If third Mann brother is first murderer, who is second murderer?” asked Heavy.

Miss Pauling gave it some thought, and judging by the look on her face, maybe it was safe for Scout to think that the second one wasn't as terribly shocking as the likes of which Gray Mann was. _“As for the second murderer, I couldn't really get much info out of him that seemed bizarre or relatively shocking. A little bit of a troublemaker, so we heard — likes threatening those that disagreed with his point of view but never exactly hurt them or anything. The teachers in his school decided that maybe he was just hot-tempered, that's all. After he ended his education, he worked as a security guard that handled the Gateways.”_

She looked down towards a bunch of scattered notes on the table, neat and arranged when she first started out but now a cluttered mess. _“Let's see, I think his name was…”_ she muttered, her hands rifling through the pile as her eyes scanned for whatever she was looking for. _“... ah, Jim Ryan! Former security guard to the Gateways Institution.”_ She held up a folder for them to see, and clipped to that photo was a man about as muscular as Saxton Hale was, with slightly greying hair and a stern expression.

“Wait, hang on there, Miss Pauling,” Sniper spoke up. All eyes turned to him as he leaned closer, getting a better look of that picture. Miss Pauling brought the photo right against the camera lens to make it easier for Sniper to take a look. “Jim Ryan… Jim Ryan…” he mumbled quietly.

“You… know him, Sniper?” Spy asked, and by the tiny dash of hope in his voice, he could tell that Spy was praying that this Jim Ryan was not someone as dangerous as the likes of which Gray Mann was. Everyone else in the room seemed to be hoping the same, and hoped Sniper wouldn't disappoint.

Just as Scout was convinced that perhaps Sniper didn't know him at all, Sniper jumped. “That's right, I remember that Jim Ryan! Quite the talker, him. He certainly doesn't like those that don't agree with him, I remember.”

 _“Wait, you actually_ know _him? This could be important news, Sniper. What else do you know?”_

His eyebrows furrowed as he gave it more thought. “He was a secondary school student when I first held my rifle. He moved in around the neighbourhood about almost thirty years ago, but I had already left for the army so I only knew about him because Mum and Dad mentioned him a lot. Won't exactly ‘cause a fistfight but rather, pushes students to start a fight with him instead by spraying off controversial ideas and taunting other kids for not following them. Usually his family pulls him back before it starts though. A bit of a mother's boy, that one. My parents weren't fond of him, and thought the kid was just a little bit too firm with his ideas.”

Engineer gave it a thought, “So he's an idealist that likes pushing it onto others which in return, makes them angry and wanna lay a punch on him?”

“Kinda sounds like someone I know. You know, him being a Nazi and all,” Scout mumbled underneath his breath, only realising he had said it too loud when the whole room grew silent. In a fit of panic, his eyes flew over to the someone he was referring to, but Medic only glared murderously in response. The look he played, if anything, told Scout a million stories, but at the very least, he took no steps to punish him bitterly for his words.

The one who reacted negatively, however, was Heavy, who glared at him, furious, “Do not talk about Doctor like that, little man!” He tried to stand from his chair, cracking his knuckles as he did but Demoman held him back — and Scout on that very day had never been so thankful of the one-eyed drunk before.

“Silence,” Spy snarled. The noise died down in less than a second, but did nothing to abate Heavy's glower. Scout whimpered, sinking his head lower in fearful submission. Spy barely lifted his head as he gestured for Sniper to carry on. “Continue.”

Sniper obeyed, “Well, that‘s all I know about Jim Ryan, actually. As far as I gathered from Mum and Dad, yeah, he's what Engineer said. Shortly after a year or two, they moved away. Ever since then, I never heard from the kid. But yet again, Jim Ryan’s a common name — may be some other chap named Jim Ryan.”

Miss Pauling took a few seconds to absorb the words he said, deep in thought before alas, she nodded. _“It's better than nothing, Sniper. Thank you. In the meantime, we'll continue with the investigations to fish out more we have to know about both Gray Mann and Jim Ryan.”_

“So, what do we do, Miss Pauling?” Scout asked. “We gonna beat the freakin’ crap outta those two or what? That'll teach them not to mess with RED.”

 _“At the moment, Scout? Stay put. We don't know what kind of dangers we're about to face here so until we know what's going on”_ — the sound of a telephone followed, Miss Pauling's eyes darting to the direction of it and her words quickened — _“we're going to have to lay low. Until we know for sure what we're going up against. I'll be off now, guys. Have a good weekend.”_

“But—”

And just like that, the screen blackened, and Miss Pauling disappeared with it. It was back to Scout staring as he anticipated, with only that blankness staring straight back at him.

 _Stay put,_ he remembered her say. At the rate of all these new mysteries coming in, supported by the fact that Miss Pauling was bound to have to investigate more about it, Scout wondered how long would it be before he saw her face again.

But at least he was expecting her absence this time. It wouldn't be like this morning — being driven to a panic and anticipating with worry because he didn't know if she were okay. At least he knew this time.

The mercenaries looked at one another, a mixture of confusion, uncertainty and hesitance thick in the air as they wondered what would come next from these two incoming threats. With hope, they will remain what they are now: mere minor threats — small in numbers and easy to weed out. If that were it, Scout figured, his bat and shotgun would already be more than enough to take them out. How dangerous could they be anyway? They were only two men.

He supposed it would take some time before they found out what those two were _really_ like.

Pyro nuzzled against Engineer, making a series of muffled noises only he could ever understand. Engineer, with a gentle smile, reached out a hand and stroked him like one would a pet. “What's the matter, buddy?” Excitedly, Pyro held out a book and passed it over to him as he hopped up and down with joy. “Want me to read this for ya?”

He nodded excitedly, “Mmph mmph mmph!” he said (he wasn't sure if it was actually speaking or just plain sounds but whatever it was, Scout didn't really care anyway — and he was certain no one else did), clapping his hands as he made jovial leaps around him. He bumped against Heavy in the process, unaware of their collision, but the Russian made no sound — he seemed to be too deep in thought to pay attention.

Engineer chuckled, “Well, alright, alright. Settle down there, buddy. You don't watch your step there, you'll trip on something.” He glanced over to the rest of the mercenaries, giving them a polite tip of his hard hat as he stood; the book close to his hip. “If y'all will excuse me, I'll be with Pyro minding the entranceway. If any of you need me—”

“Engineer, we don't have time to play around and have fun,” Medic snapped. “Who knows how long it will be before more new threats arrive? We must learn more about these two _schweinehunde._ The less we know about these perpetrators now will result in our demise, especially if we choose to do nothing more about it.”

“ _Doc.”_ His voice was calm and gentle as he spoke, but nowhere lacking in solemness — stern, yet proving that Engineer was dead serious. “I get your concern and all but at the moment, we can't do much but wait for when Miss Pauling returns with more information. Gray Mann was nothing but dead to us until just this morning. Jim Ryan is some ex-security guard over at Gateways and possibly just some troublemaking, propagandist wannabe Sniper heard of decades ago. Besides that, not even the Administrator and Miss Pauling know anything — so who's to say we can go further than they can? So, I appreciate that you wanna try, Medic, but it's all for naught if we don't got much of a lead.”

“But you wish to tell me that making no effort at all to know our enemies is a better step, Engineer? _Nein.”_

“Doc, but we've got no lead here. What exactly is there for us to take a closer look at if there ain't a single lead to guide us the right way? We keep heading forward without some lead, we're gonna end up running into a doggone wall.”

“You sure you don't know even a teensy bit of this Gray guy, Spy?” Scout interrupted, eyeing the French man, whom had been quietly listening to the dispute between Medic and Engineer as he smoked his new cigar. His gaze trailed over to Scout, and lifted an eyebrow to show he had his attention. “Maybe from your time snooping about, you ran across just a hint of this guy trying to mess around with intel? Or maybe you heard some rumours around about something like, ‘Yo, this dude looks like the Mann brothers!’ or something?”

If there were anyone who knew of the whispers shared on the streets, it would be Spy — for the man, or so he heard, had many eyes and ears around, even places he least expected; all of which fed him rumours about anything they felt was important enough for him to know. In fact, he was certain Spy was the go-to Miss Pauling and the Administrator relied on whenever it came to learning about information hidden within the shadows — one of the primary reasons why Spy’s clones and not Spy himself was usually the one intercepting enemy lines on missions. The man himself, they all seemed to think, was just far too big a profit to lose.

All eyes kept on Spy, eagerly awaiting his response and hoped for an answer, but much to Scout's disappointment, the Spy only shook his head, “These are news even for me, Scout. Had I known of it, did you honestly think I would let Gray Mann come this far as to assassinate Blutarch Mann?”

Well, in Scout's opinion, yes, because if it meant they could bring down Blutarch Mann, why wouldn't Spy take advantage of him and leave him be? That _was_ what Redmond Mann wanted now, wasn't it?

He came close to speaking out, but right before he could, Medic continued. “I'll be requesting for that blood sample of Gray Mann from Miss Pauling and will run some tests on it for further research. I would like to know a little more about who are newfound enemies are.” The man turned on his heels, said nothing more to the team and started walking his way back to the laboratory. Spy tried to speak, but Engineer held him back. Knowing the doctor, there was no changing him once his mind was made up. Nothing would make him stop.

“Doctor,” Heavy called out. Scout wasn't certain why, but the Russian’s voice resonated with a melancholic echo in the air. The doctor paused, and after a brief moment he turned back to look his way. The Russian looked like he had something to say, but the man was never really good in English, so Scout supposed that whatever it was he wanted to talk about could not come to for that reason. He extended a hand out instead, probably gesturing for Medic about something but whatever he intended, Medic did not respond. They stayed like that for a while as the others simply watched.

Neither one, however, spoke any further. Heavy remained that way for a long time, just extending that hand out for him but Medic offered no response. Alas, he withdrew, pulling back and the doctor carried on through. The room was left with nothing more than the echo of the door as he slammed it shut.

Engineer was the next to stand, and in his footsteps, Pyro followed. “C'mon, buddy. I'll read you that book, alright?” A series of muffled but excited sounds followed, and Engineer let out a laugh. “Alright, alright, saddle up, partner. I know you're excited.”

Right before he took his first step, however, he turned towards the rest of the team. Scout expected a few words. Some encouragement, maybe. But alas, Engineer doffed his helmet. “Afternoon, boys.”

Soon, just like Medic, they were gone as well.

 _So now what?_ Scout thought. Those who remained still gathered at the table, but none of them paid heed to the team as a whole: Spy and Sniper were locked in an argument, discussing on what potential dangers could come for RED; Heavy’s attention was intent and fixated onto his hands; Demoman simply downed more and more of the whiskey in par with his silence. Scout simply stared at them, unsure on which end he could interact with. Or rather, which end he _should_ interact with.

Supposing that Spy and Sniper were already in a discussion, — and the fact that Demoman was probably too drunk and Heavy too angry to speak with — Scout stood from his chair and hopped over to their side. Neither man seemed to notice his presence; far too enraptured in their discussion to care.

“—think about it, mate,” Sniper reasoned, his tone exasperated. Scout's presence went through the marksman unnoticed. “It was already marked difficult when we found out that this man has information neither Miss Pauling nor the Administrator thought were vital enough to know about. My parents ain't going to be gathering up information and risking their lives because I ain't going to allow it.”

But regardless of how fed up the Sniper seemed to be, Spy was barely fazed; uncaring and inattentive as the Australian droned on and on. As if to further demonstrate his lack of interest, Spy retrieved from his pocket his lighter, a cigar from the other, and with a flick he opened the cap and sparked a weak flame. He placed the cigar between his lips and set the outer tip alight. A long intake of breath before an exhale. The smoke wafted against the other's face drew an irritated scowl from Sniper.

“When you signed up for a job here, you should have known of the risks. How foolish.” The Spy was close to silent with those words. His eyes kept to his cigar. “A job of this kind, regardless of the employer, surely would always risk potential danger — especially to close ones. To think that you did not know this despite your previous experience—”

“I knew the risks, chap.” Sniper retorted, his voice lowered to a deep growl. “That was why I made it bloody clear the first time that I wasn't interested. I know just how much they liked playing around with people they can lay their hands on. They couldn't fool me then.”

Another lazy, unimpressed puff of smoke, its essence drawn into long, elegant curls into the air. “Yet I wonder where you are now.”

The Sniper snarled, angrier. “You of all people know bloody well why I agreed a second time. _You_ were the one that came to me. You know it better than anyone else. You might have your nose all high and mighty but if that were _your_ family—”

Impatience soon caught up, the words to his head having him in a bore. He had himself step in, curious over their discussion. “Yo, what're you two going on about?”

That seemed to catch the Sniper off guard. He turned to him, eyes widened in surprise. “Kid,” he exclaimed, “how long have you been listening? Crikey, whole shock ain't it, this—”

“And just why have you come to bother us, Scout? Can you not see that we are busy? Me and Sniper were caught in a heated discussion yet you have chosen to interrupt.”

Scout blinked. “What? I wasn't—” _interrupting,_ he tried to complete, but thinking about it, wasn't that what he was doing? “Well, I mean I _was_ , but—” His tongue twisted and knotted, spouting garbled speeches, before realizing that reasoning that way was not going to work. “Then what the hell do I do? Sit around doin’ nothing like some freakin’ dumbass? I thought we were supposed to be, I dunno, makin’ up plans on how to, uh, kick that Jim Ryan and Gray Mann ass or something.”

Sniper frowned. “It ain't an issue, Spy,” he backed him up. “We were just thinking about piecing together a plan now, weren't we? More brains thinking will be of better help to us.”

He perked up. “Yeah, yeah! Maybe a lil’ something like—”

“‘Brains’?” Spy pondered. “Then surely you must know, Sniper, that you are looking at the wrong place. This boy is rather lacking in it, don't you think? If anything, our entire strategy would fail in any direction it takes, just as long as Scout finds himself poking around in the plans.”

The surprise shifted to irritance. Irritance to anger. _Oh, that's done it._ “What the fuck?”

Sniper followed, eyes widened in shock. “Spy.”

“What?” Spy said. “Both you and I know of how true that is. In fact, I believe everyone in the team knows that Scout never listens, especially since listening to orders already proves so very difficult for him. Begs us to know if you could do better with your corpse laying limp after someone sends a bullet to the right place.”

“Spy!” Sniper snapped, angry this time.

More anger. Whatever it was, Scout just wasn't in the mood to deal with his crap. “Oh yeah? And what's it to you, you freakin’ slimeball? You thinkin’ you all class and charm because you in a suit and you a smoker? Well, so what, wise-cracks? Maybe you should throw off that stupid get-up and start fightin’ fist-to-fist instead of stabbin’ people in the back like some freakin’coward, eh?”

“Interesting,” His face was expressionless, yet Scout couldn't help but feel those eyes beginning to flower. It was intimidating, but Scout found himself far too pissed to feel bothered. He met those eyes, and his gaze refused to waver. Their locked gazes were a battle itself. “I remember seeing you running away yourself when the gun starts pointing your way. It would make sense to run when it is, yes?”

It wasn't true. Scout was not the type to flee battle. Spy did not know who he really was. The Frenchman was always doing nothing but spouting out bullshit about him for Scout to hear. Well, Scout wouldn't abide with his ways. He wasn't in the mood to take it. Not now.

“I ain't no runner!” he lashed out. “Who the fuck are you sayin’ goes running when the guns get pointed their way, huh? I ain't the one that goes hidin’ like some freakin’ coward when someone points a freakin’ gun at me like, I dunno, _you,_ you piece of shit!”

“Knowing when to attack and running away from battle are two very different things. Which, certainly, is something you would not know about, I feel.

“I don't know about it? _I don't know about it?_ I freakin’ know all when to hide and when to run away. Don't come fuckin’ around with me, you little asshole.”

It wasn't until a hand, the Sniper's, shoved him back from where he was did he finally realise how close he had gotten towards the Spy. “Now that's enough, both of you bogans! Both of you better quit yapping and acting like bloody lil’ ankle biters with this kind of whining.”

“Oh, fuck off, Snipes,” Scout snapped. “Don't freakin’ tell me I'm wrong here when that double-faced son of a bitch is the one who started this shit. Why don't you get with the bitchin’ on that guy instead of gunnin’ it down on me, huh?”

He was just about to shove the Sniper away when finally, his eyes met with the marksman’s and he felt himself shrink in fear. “I said ‘both of you’ so that was a message for fucking both of you so _both of you_ will bloody quit it. Scout, you'll be turning around and walking forward. Spy will do the same. Neither one will turn back, understand?”

Both the Spy nor Scout replied.

Sniper lowered his voice, menacing. “ _Understand?”_

Scout pulled back, pissed, yet intimidated at the same time. “Okay, _fine._ I'm fucking going.”

The gaze from Spy's eyes did not break. “I heard you.”

“Good. Now off, both of you.”

So Scout forcefully had himself move, as did the Spy, though the former was not silent as he had himself leave for the east hallway. He kicked the nearby desk as he walked, and one by one the stationary cluttered to the ground as he forced his way through. The crowd stared at him as he passed but at this point, he couldn't bring himself to care. He wasn't going to let that rest aside.


End file.
